The Damned

England, 1533. Three hundred years ago, Isabel Devereux was a girl who dreamt of death. Now, Isabel is death itself.

To Thomas Sutton, Isabel is both saviour and demon, lover and torturer, holding his life in her hands. To Thomas, she will reveal her story, a haunting tale of family greed and ambition, of love and loyalty amongst the most powerful, and most corrupt, of nobles. The beautiful vampiress harbours terrible blood-stained secrets and a tragic tale of thwarted love, of a heart given and a heart betrayed by those who should have protected her. But when death came for Isabel three hundred years ago, he took the form of a golden-haired man who gifted her with eternity - and an unquenchable thirst for blood. Thomas will be heir to it all, if he chooses. But first he must face her demons and his own. He must hear the story of Isabel and Conor, star-crossed lovers who seem fated to destroy one another.

Exploring the dichotomy between fate and self-fulfilling prophecy, Forged in Blood is dark, sensuous and shocking. Here are vampires and monsters, demons and innocents, men and women caught up in death and destruction, blood and savagery, cruelty and love.
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Chapters:

"Her name was Eva, and she is, unsurprisingly, the ancestress of
your King Henry, Thomas. I say unsurprisingly because she was
always too perfect for mere mortals. You could say she was
destined for royalty, for when she moved every pair of eyes moved
with her, and when she spoke she commanded people's attention. I
loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her." He ran a
black-gloved hand over the rim of his goblet, his ring glittering
in the firelight. The sound was soft, teasing, like mocking
laughter, and the stare which he fixed on Isabel mocked too.

A dangerous look danced in her eyes, the emotion unfamiliar to
Thomas. She was jealous. She had walked the earth for over three
hundred years, but enough of her humanity remained to allow her
to experience such a petty mortal emotion. Thomas regarded her as
some divine entity, so evidence of such a human flaw shocked him.

The effect was not lost on Conor. He cocked his head to one side,
a wry look in his eyes. "Are you jealous, Isabel?" he mocked. He
sidled up behind her, rubbed his hands over her shoulders.

Her eyes narrowed, and she refused to answer. "We have to go,"
she said bluntly. She twisted her neck to look at him, and the
firelight hit her hair, sparkling against the jewels woven into
her hairnet. She stretched on her toes, tongue flicking against
his neck as she spoke, her teeth nipping at his earlobe. "I'm
hungry. I want to hunt."

Once, she had hunted Thomas, toyed with him, luring him in. She
was his Diana, his goddess of the hunt. Yet it had been no hunt,
truly, only a seduction. And she could seduce him still. In her
velvet gown, breasts spilling, lined with pearls, she was a black
widow, spinning her silken web, luring him to his death with her
beauty and her promises. The ornate crucifix which she wore
around her neck seemed to laugh at him, for even whilst she wore
Venus' face she was as perfectly lovely as a virgin Madonna. Her
slender hands did not seem made for killing.

But she could take his life, if only she promised never again to
leave him. Yet leave him she would, and soon. He was shocked at
how quickly the night had passed. Already, the sky had turned
from black to charcoal, and the stars were beginning to
disappear, heralding the arrival of morning.

Conor nodded his assent, his dark eyes covetous as he watched the
words fall from her red lips. He began to walk towards the door,
half turning when he realised that she was not following him. He
looked at Thomas like a wolf sighting prey, tongue lolling from
his jaws, licking at his fangs.

Isabel approached Thomas purposefully, her movements as graceful
as a dancer. She sank down gently on the bed beside him. Placing
a silken hand on his cheek she kissed him slowly and deliberately
on the lips. Her other hand travelled down his stomach, brushed
against his groin. Desire coursed through his body, and he wanted
nothing more than to crush her to him, to kiss her pale breasts
and feel her writhe beneath him.

Though Isabel faced away from him, Conor was directly in Thomas'
eye line. He looked crushed as he watched her display of
affection, hurt evident in his face. His beautiful form turned
away from the scene before him.

As Isabel drew away from Thomas, he felt panic grip his heart; he
was losing her all over again. The fear must have shown in his
face, for she stroked his cheek tenderly. "Do not fret," she
quieted. She lifted the covers over his shoulders, and kissed him
on the forehead, the action motherly.

She had not been so gentle before, when he had worn her bruises
around his throat, like a token of her lust. She had been
insatiable, hungry. Those pale hands, which seemed made for
nothing darker than holding puppies and painting lovely scenes of
fields and flowers, had choked him till he might not breathe,
letting him go only so that he may scream. Did it sadden her now,
to see his own body choke him? To know that it was still her
sweet hands around his neck? But she was softer now, though he
was dying still.

"Sweet dreams, my love." She pressed a kiss to his neck, rough
and not without teeth, and with that, she was gone.

Conor walked slowly to the door, steps careful and measured. He
rested his hand on the frame as he reached it. When he spoke, his
voice was low and quiet, and he did not turn to look at Thomas.
"She's mine. Always has been. Always will be." His voice held a
note of warning, and though Thomas could not see his face, a
muscle pulsed violently in his neck.

He swallowed, afraid now that Isabel's protective presence was no
longer there. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He was
frozen with fear.

Conor half-turned, his profile illuminated by the braziers that
flickered and guttered in the hall. He smiled blackly. "Do we
understand each other, Thomas?"

He forced himself to nod, gulping. The action was painful,
causing his dry throat to throb.

Conor disappeared into the night with her as Thomas fell back
against the pillows. Both his mind and his body were drained, and
he drifted into an exhausted torpor. He slept fitfully throughout
the day, the light assaulting him whenever he awoke; an omen of
what was to come.